


This One Time, At Spark Camp

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aliases, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Character, First Kiss, Getting Together, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic Camp, Magical Danny Mahealani, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, Minor Injuries, Multi, Oblivious Stiles, Open Relationships, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Selkies, Sex Magic, Tech Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's in the meditation hut, sitting in front of a panel of four small white LED light bulbs and using his magic to turn them off and on, singly and in clusters. Stiles scratches his stomach and stares at the ceiling as he says, "You know, I'm as happy to swallow as the next guy—"</p><p>All of Danny's light bulbs flare on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This One Time, At Spark Camp

**Author's Note:**

> As with many of my Danny/Stiles stories, conversations with [the_wordbutler"](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler) inspired this one. Thank you!

The air at the front of the Grotto shimmers gold, and Stiles has ten seconds to arrange his naked body in what he hopes is an alluring pose on the four-post bed whose posts are trees before the magical boundary turns transparent. Stiles sees the forest around him, thick with cedar trees and humming with bird and insect life, and then a dude stumbles into the space and restores the protective magic that shields the space from outside eyes and makes it look like a cozy, rustic bedroom from the inside.

The guy is tall and lanky, even by Stiles' standards for tall and lanky. He's pale white and brunet and brown-eyed, and his eyes are wide as he looks at Stiles and says, "Hey, a dude."

Stiles smothers a laugh as he thinks of Danny's stories about straight guys being surprised when other dudes hit on them at gay bars, but he schools his features into seriousness. Even though it's not his shift, he's still a Grotto tender, so the comfort and emotional security of visitors is always his responsibility. "Will that be a problem?" he asks.

"Oh, no," the guy says hurriedly, hopping as he pulls off his shoes and socks. "Just didn't know what to expect."

"Is this your first time in the Grotto?" Stiles asks.

The guy nods, then shakes his head. "Well, it's, I mean, I came here once before, but I was still with my girlfriend, so we were here together. It's my first time just . . . walking into a room and seeing what happens." He's out of his shirt now, revealing a long, pale, scrawny chest with a line of light brown hair down it. His hands drop to his belt, and Stiles notes that they're nice hands with long, agile fingers. _Musician's fingers_ , he thinks.

"We can do as much or as little as you'd like," Stiles says, setting up launching into his standard spiel. "The Grotto is a welcoming place for people of all genders and sexualities. We honor all acts of love, sincerely shared."

It's not a line. The Grotto is a space—well, sort of a space, a bit of forest marked out by magic and will—dedicated to sexuality and sensuality. For some it's a sacred act. For others it's just a good time. The tenders don't judge. Some people come to their two-hour block with a specific partner or partners, while others show up and take their chances on whoever's there. That option appeals strongly to Stiles' belief in the inherent randomness of the Universe, and most of the time, he's whoever's there.

And it _isn't_ only for sex. Stiles has exchanged massages, imparted his wisdom on safe (and enjoyable) sex practices to a couple of recent high school graduates who'd suffered through abstinence-only sex ed., and spooned with a recent widow who missed being held. He's, uh, also had _a lot_ of sex here.

"Cool," the guy says as he shucks off his pants and underwear and stands naked in front of Stiles. His cock is nice and long, if a bit on the thin side, and Stiles thinks he'd enjoy having it in his ass, but he's not sure a guy who wasn't even expecting another guy would be up for that on the first go-round. "I wanna suck you."

Stiles is not an idiot. He's not going to turn down an offer like that. He smiles and slides over, patting the empty part of the bed invitingly. "By all means," he says.

"Awesome." The guy ignores the empty space beside Stiles and drops to his knees at the end of the mattress, planting his hands and sliding his way up toward Stiles' groin.

"Whoa, hey, wait," Stiles says, putting his palm against the guy's head to hold him in place. "What are you doing?"

"Sucking you off," the guy says, and the way his forehead crinkles with confusion is adorable.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, "but, and, I mean, call me old-fashioned, but I like to know a person's name before I stick my dick in their mouth."

"Oh." The guy straightens up, looking sheepish. "Right. Yeah. Guess I'm nervous." He swallows and looks around. "They, uh, people around here call me Fid."

Stiles blinks. "Okay?" he asks, because it sounds like Fid's not saying something else.

"It's short for Fiddlehead. Like the fern."

Stiles grins broadly. He sticks his hand out and Fid takes it gingerly. Stiles turns it more into a caress than a shake and then slides away as he leans back on the pillows. "Well met, Fid. You can call me Rotkäppchen." Fid doesn't react, so he doesn’t speak German or recognize the name. "Hey listen," he says as Fid lowers himself onto the bed with a charming gracelessness, "I, uh, _happen_ to be a sex mage? It's, uh, not a big thing or anything, but, just, if it involves orgasms and magic, I'm your guy."

"Oh." Fid laughs nervously. "Yeah? You must uh—" He stopped, looking appalled with himself.

"I do _now_ ," Stiles says, taking pity on him. "Last of my friends to lose my virginity, but it, uh. Opened the floodgates, if you know what I mean. It's mostly why I'm a tender. Giving back to the place that gives me so much, you know." Fid looks like he _kind of_ knows, so Stiles plows on, "Just, if it's okay with you, I'm going to, you know . . . keep some of that energy today."

"Oh!" Fid's expression clears instantly. "Yeah, that—that's fine. Great. Yeah, that's great."

Stiles smiles as reassuringly as he knows how and reaches for Fid's thigh, which happens to be the closest part of him. They'll muddle through this. Stiles always does.

*

Danny is at Spark Camp ("It's not called that, Rotkäppchen!") because he looked at the smoldering wreckage of the third computer his magic had fried in the past month and admitted, "I need help."

Stiles is at Spark Camp (okay, _fine_ , the North American Magic-Users Moot—which he can't convince anyone else to call "NAMUM") because there are rules.

The first and most obvious rule is the names. For seven days of camp, everyone goes by a magical name. Even if you made yours up for this occasion and will never use it again. _Everyone_ addresses everyone else by their camp names—relatives, partners, grovemates—doesn't matter how close you are outside these walls; within them, it's camp names only. The organizers claim that's to protect privacy, but Stiles calls B.S., because most of them know each other in the "real world," too. But someone got kicked out Stiles' first time here for calling people by their outside names, so he knows the organizers aren't joking around.

The _most important_ rule is that everyone coming for the first time must be vouched for by someone who 1) has attended before or knows someone on staff, and 2) attends as a sponsor for the newbie.

Stiles has been here before, and he knows everyone on the staff. Danny spent two years denying he even had magic and purposely isolating himself from the magic-using community. He knew no one but Stiles. And so, here Stiles is.

But he'd had time on his hands. Sure, his morning path in Magic, Ethics, and Community Relations will be invaluable in his work as Scott's emissary, and who _wouldn't_ benefit from an evening seminar in Self-Esteem for Better Magic? But he doesn't have to attend the first-time camper sessions in magical control and how to be in a room with other magic-users without blowing up the building. So his afternoons had been free—until Starry, five foot nothing and a buck ten sopping wet but with an aura like a precision lightning strike and a spark twice as strong, found him the first night at dinner and said, "You're going to be a Grotto tender."

He'd thought about that for all of two seconds before saying, "Yeah, I am."

Danny'd looked surprised when Stiles announced his new plans for the week, but once he had Stiles' assurances that he wouldn't let his obligations to the Grotto interfere with his obligations as Danny's sponsor, he'd sighed, clapped Stiles' shoulder, and said, "Don't do anything stupid."

Stiles is doing his best to comply.

*

Danny's in the meditation hut, but Stiles sees through the window that he's not meditating. He's sitting on a pillow in front of a panel of four small white LED lightbulbs and using his magic to turn them off and on, singly and in clusters. He's barefoot, wearing cream-colored yoga pants and no shirt, which will complicate Stiles' general level of sanity for the next few minutes, but he'd rather be in the room and deal with shirtless Danny than escape temptation but have no Danny at all.

Danny doesn't look up as Stiles enters the hut, but he smiles faintly when Stiles toes off his shoes and socks and says, "There . . . are. . . four . . . lights!" in the worst British accent ever heard by human ears. Stiles crosses the room and flops dramatically on a pile of pillows next to Danny, who's just turned off the last two bulbs. Stiles scratches his stomach and stares at the ceiling as he says, "You know, I'm as happy to swallow as the next guy—"

All of Danny's lightbulbs flare on. One of them shatters.

"—but I hate when I get so into blowing a guy that I miss the warning signs and then, _BLAMMO_! throatful of jizz."

Danny is still refusing to look at Stiles as he dims the lights to about half their original brightness, which might be the wattage they're rated for. "Yes," Danny says, deadpan. "I hate that, too."

On their way out of the hut, they cross paths with Fid, on his way to the sauna. "Hey, Rotkäppchen!" he calls cheerfully. Stiles smiles and waves back.

"Hey, listen," Fid says as he comes up to them, "I noticed the—oh, hi." He cocks his head at Danny.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Stiles says. "Fid, this is my friend Turing. I'm sponsoring him this week. Turing, Fid. We had sex today."

Fid coughs and turns brick red. Danny nods and says, "Cool. Hey, that thing with the light bulbs burns like a thousand calories. I'm going to hit the dining hall, eat my weight in clementines and tiny chocolate squares. Wanna come?"

"My weight in tiny chocolates," Stiles muses before jumping forward to keep up with Danny. "I can never pass up a challenge like that." He smiles at Fid. "Good to see you again."

"Uh, actually," Fid says, falling into step with them, "I was looking at my schedule for tomorrow, and I have a free space in the 2 to 4 slot. I was wondering if you'd want to, uh—" He licks his lips and glances quickly at Danny. "If you'd want to go back to the Grotto with me."

Stiles stops walking. Fid slows way down and walks backward to look at him. Danny snorts and keeps on. "I, uh, that's sweet of you to ask, Fid," Stiles gets out, "and I'm flattered that you enjoyed our time together enough to ask for a repeat. But I, uh, it's one ride per passenger, you know? Grotto tender rule, actually. Keeps things cleaner for everyone." He starts walking again.

"Yeah, no," Fid says quickly. "I get it. That's . . . a good policy. Smart. So I'll—I guess I'll see you around camp?"

"For sure," Stiles says, nodding madly. His stomach is clenched and churning. "For sure."

"Okay, well . . . cool, I guess. Uh—it was nice to meet you—" Fid looks over his shoulder and double-takes when he realizes Danny isn't with them anymore. He looks back at Stiles, who shrugs. "Okay," Fid says again and veers abruptly onto a connecting path, disappearing from view behind another cabin.

"Such fucking bullshit," Starry grouses.

"Gah!" Stiles jumps, trips over a rock, and almost goes to his knees. "Woman, where the _fuck_ did you come from?"

She snorts and ignores him. "Grotto tender rule my shiny white ass."

"Well," Stiles says, trying to calm his racing heart and regain his equanimity, "it's true. It's my rule, and I'm a Grotto tender, so it's a Grotto tender rule."

"No other tenders have that rule."

"No need for him to know that."

"You know," Starry says, rolling her eyes, "you could _say_ you don't want to bang him again."

"But I _do_ ," Stiles insists, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Fid hasn't reappeared. "He does this thing with his tongue that's—uh, anyway, it's not lack of interest. There's just . . . a _lot_ of sexy people here, and we only stay for so long."

She gives him an assessing gaze out of the corner of his eye. "You're a little sleazy, you know that?"

Stiles grins. "I consider it one of my best qualities."

*

Clothilde is 18 and a selkie. Walnut-brown skin, long, wavy brown hair that looks green under certain light, wide green eyes, a big, powerful body. She's engaged, she tells Stiles, to a wonderful male selkie back home (Stiles has just enough self-preservation not to say that he hadn't known there were male selkies) and has _no_ intention of staying on land and becoming anyone's fishwife. "My skin's so well-hidden even _I'm_ going to have trouble finding it," she jokes. Despite only being a year younger than he is, something about her strikes Stiles as inherently innocent, and he almost feels bad about having sex with her.

Until she explains that she and her fiancé agreed she should, during her time on land in human form, learn as much as she possibly could about humans. "Including having sex with as many of you as I can!" she finishes proudly, tossing her hands in the air like she's reached the end of a complex cheerleading routine. Stiles really has to kiss her at that point.

"You know, my friend, the one I'm sponsoring? We think he has mer in his ancestry," Stiles tells her when he pulls back. "Do merfolk and selkies ever cross paths?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Merfolk come from warm water. We prefer the cold. Heat makes people weak. Your friend is probably very weak. I should have sex with him, so I know what it's like to have sex with a mer."

"Well, you could suggest it, but he's gay, so I'm pretty sure he'll turn you down."

It turns out "gay" isn't a concept in selkie culture, where everyone is gloriously pansexual, so they lose the next chunk of time to Stiles trying to explain the spectrum of human gender and sexuality and why it's improper to quiz people about their genitals. Then Clothilde shows Stiles, as best she can on land, how to give a selkie woman an orgasm. In the interest of cultural exchange.

*

Stiles finds Danny in the Craft Cabin. It's . . . a strange place. Sure, you can make lanyards and God's eyes and friendship bracelets, but it's the _Craft_ cabin as well as the craft cabin, so you can also make talismans and altar decorations and voodoo dolls, if that's your tradition.

Danny's sitting at one of the long oak crafting tables. He appears to be making a lanyard, and he appears to be doing so utterly without irony. Stiles made a lot of lanyards his first time here. Someone told him they would increase his focus and help him bleed the abundant excess magical energy he hadn't figured out how to store or channel. Stiles never got them to work.

Danny looks ridiculous with his long back in its forest green T-shirt hunched over the table and his broad hands fiddling with the plastic cording, but the mix of concentration and relaxation on his face is very familiar to Stiles. Maybe it really helps him.

Stiles opens the cabin door, shoving against the humidity and wincing at the squeak. Danny looks up and over, and his mouth curves in a gentle smile. "Hey." His dark eyes flick to the grinning sun-shaped clock on the wall. "Your shift over?"

"Yeah." Stiles drops onto the bench beside Danny and stretches before slumping over with his hands on the glue-and-glitter-covered tabletop and his chin on his hands. "Feeling all charged up."

"Good." Danny turns back to his lanyard.

"You making a focus?"

Danny hums. "Something like that."

Stiles doesn't push. Danny struggles enough to accept that he _has_ magic; it'll be a while before he's willing to talk about it.

They sit quietly for a minute, Danny braiding like there's no tomorrow, Stiles tracing patterns of scissor gouges and marker skids across the tabletop. But Stiles is Stiles, and he can't hold his tongue forever. "Here's an interesting fact about selkie labia," he says.

Danny's hands still on his lanyard. His gaze flicks electric-fast to Stiles and then away. His hands start moving again, faster than before. "This is why I like spending time with you, Rotkäppchen," he says. "I always learn something."

*

Stiles doesn't even have his _pants off_ , for fuck's sake, when someone starts shouting for him. "Rotkäppchen! Rotkäppchen, open up!"

Stiles smiles apologetically at Raven, who shrugs and pulls the sheet over hir lap as Stiles crosses to the space they generally use as a door. He holds his khaki shorts closed with his hand and doesn't bother with his shirt. He puts his other hand in the air and pushes his magic so it forms a roughly door-shaped space in front of him. "Can I help you?"

It's Bletchley, one of the other tech mages, the one Danny's closest to. Stiles has been dreaming of inviting her to join him in the Grotto all week. Picture the Venus of Willendorf carved from jet, with spiky pink hair and more piercings than Stiles can count—and the only thing she's wearing is shoes, so Stiles can count a lot. "You're Turing's sponsor, right?"

He's not sure if it's her tone or his finely tuned sense of when his pack's in danger, but Stiles knows instantly that something's wrong. He's zipping and buttoning his shorts as he asks, "What is it?"

"It's too much to explain. You just need to come."

Stiles turns to search for his shirt. When he finds Raven standing behind him holding it out to him, he could kiss hir. Which _had been_ the plan. Only now there's no time, because Danny's in trouble. "Take me to him, please," he says tightly, proud that he can muster that much common politeness.

Bletchley nods and leads him quickly across the campgrounds. No one talks to them or gets in their way, which is good, because Stiles would've taken a swing at anyone who tried.

People whose magic is prone to blowing shit up have run of the Lab, a room in the back of the dining hall, to practice in. It's made of reinforced, heavily soundproofed steel and has a humidifier running at all times to limit combustibility. Stiles knows Danny comes here often, but he's never been, himself. This is Danny's thing, and he needs to be able to do it himself without Stiles hovering. At least, that's Stiles' sponsorship philosophy. His own sponsor had been a hoverer, and it had made him nervous and his magic clumsy as a result.

Part of Stiles' brain processes the room as he moves into it: the barren emptiness of the metal walls, the scratch and scorch marks on the floor, the three tech mages huddled, angry and terrified, in the back corner. But his attention is all on Danny, on his knees in the dead center of the room. His right hand cradles his left arm against his chest, and he's staring blankly at the perfect circle of computer debris hovering a foot off the floor all around him.

Several other campers have come into the Lab, but they're standing well back, seemingly afraid to approach Danny and his ring of floating tech. Stiles shoves them out of his way as he moves toward Danny. The floating circle puts up a brief resistance when Stiles reaches it, but he knocks the nearest component aside with his palm, and the whole thing crashes to the floor. A sigh of relief goes through the room, and Stiles glares at everyone for being chicken-shit.

He kneels in front of Danny and checks for injuries with both his physical and metaphysical sight. All the damage is on his left side: his arm is broken; he has a nasty gash on his cheek; his knee and calf are abraded from where he skidded across the floor when he fell; and his magical energies have all shifted to his right, as though something blasted them away from the left. His next few days will not be pleasant, but everything seems healable, and none of the damage will be permanent.

Stiles leans closer. He puts his hand on Danny's uninjured arm. Danny's eyes snap up, but Stiles isn't sure Danny's seeing him. "Turing," he says softly. Danny doesn't respond. Stiles drops his voice lower, brushing the backs of his fingers across Danny's right cheek. "Danny."

Someone to Stiles' left gasps, and he whirls in their general direction. "He's in shock," he snaps. "I don't want to hear it from any of you."

Danny blinks. "Stiles," he murmurs.

Stiles doesn't even look this time when another shocked murmur races through the crowd. "Hey, buddy, you okay?"

"I think I blew something up," Danny says softly.

"You did," Stiles agrees with a small, shaky laugh. "You blew it up good. Are _you_ okay?"

"My arm hurts."

"I think your radius is broken. And you maybe have a piece of plastic in there, too."

"Huh," Danny says, and Stiles thinks that shock is a good thing in this case.

"Will you let me help you?" he asks softly.

Danny nods, and Stiles feels his arm relax so he can hold it out. Stiles looks at it and winces. The damage looks worse to his physical eyes than it had to his magical scan. Danny's going to need either serious magical healing or an actual medical facility soon. Probably both.

Stiles looks around. People are still hovering around, gawking at them. The three other tech mages still huddle in the corner like wet hens. "Help me get him to the infirmary," Stiles tells Bletchley.

"That's _it_?" One of the tech mages snarls. "He blew up a fucking computer!" He lunges forward.

Stiles puts out his hand, and the guy freezes, unable to move. "Yeah, and now he's _hurt_ ," Stiles says, anger and indignation roiling in his gut. "We'll deal with your thing later."

Stiles hears angry murmurs around him. He'll probably get in trouble for violating Camp Rule #3: never use your magic against another camper. But self-defense is _always_ an exception, and he has _zero_ fucks to give for anyone who comes after Danny.

Bletchley has upper body strength that any of the werewolves Stiles knows would approve of, and once Danny's arm is around her shoulder, they get him to his feet and moving toward the door with no trouble. Danny's barely conscious, which, given the shape he's in otherwise, is for the best. Stiles is both relieved and infuriated by the way the crowd parts for them, unwilling to touch Danny as he passes. "We're all magic-users here," he hisses as they leave the Lab. "If any of them tries to tell me they've never exploded, melted, flooded, or . . . or ignited something with their magic, I will beat them with my bare hands."

Bletchley shakes her head. "You guys don't understand how weird you are. Most magic-users don't hang out with the rest of the supernatural world. We can't all be emissaries and run with werewolf packs. Those guys in there? Never use their magic for anything more strenuous than making their bread toast evenly."

Stiles snorts, but the encounter has shaken his faith in his fellow magic-users, and it's refreshing to hear Bletchley express similar misgivings. "What about you?" he says as they navigate Danny around a tree.

"My maternal great-grandmother was Huldufólk, and my paternal grandfather was a Nigerian hyena shifter." 

"Christ," Stiles says, laughing incredulously, "what are your family reunions like?"

"I'm saying I'm sure my life's been calmer than yours, especially lately, but I've seen shit."

"Yeah," Stiles says wryly. They navigate up the steps of the infirmary, and he lets Bletchley take most of Danny's weight while he works the door handle. The door pops open and they sort of fall inside. "We've seen some shit, too."

The infirmary attendant is a pediatrician with the delightful camp name of "Dr. Stranger." She takes one look at the three of them and shakes her head. "What did you do now, Rotkäppchen?" she asks.

" _Me_?" Stiles squawks. He gestures at Danny. " _He's_ your patient."

"Well, obviously," Dr. Stranger says, coming forward to help move Danny to the exam bed, "but I imagine you had _something_ to do with it."

"Lies and slander," Stiles mutters.

They situate Danny on the bed, and the doctor fusses over him with a mix of professionalism and solicitude. Stiles doesn't realize how close he's drifted until she turns to say something and almost bonks her nose against his. "Rotkäppchen," she says sternly, "either help me or get out."

Of course Stiles chooses to help. He and Bletchley both do. Bletchley pulls on a lab coat that barely covers her anything, and they bring bandages and antiseptic, take away bloody cotton swabs, and hold Danny's hand when he half wakes and starts to thrash. Dr. Stranger's methods balance magic and medicine, and Stiles isn't sure which is more effective. Magic is _magic_ , but one thing his years with the pack has taught him is that it can't heal human injuries, just speed up the process and lessen the pain.

Twenty minutes later, Danny's bandaged and bespelled. He looks the most peaceful he's been all week—the most peaceful, in fact, since he agreed to come here. Stiles runs his fingers through Danny's hair and down his cheek. Something under Stiles' skin is buzzing, something he kept at bay while he was keeping busy but demands attention now. His fingertips linger beside Danny's mouth, and he looks at Dr. Stranger, stricken. "How long will he sleep?"

The doctor gives him a knowing look. "At least two hours. Go."

"Thank you," he says and sprints out of the infirmary.

"Hey! Wait!" Bletchley's panting as she catches up to him, but once she's pulled even she has no trouble keeping up. "Where are you going? You just going to leave him?"

Stiles keeps his eyes forward. "He needs to rest. I need to bleed off some magic before I make it worse. Or end up in the next bed over."

"Gonna go fuck it out?"

" _Hey_!" He whirls on her. "This is how my magic works. I can't help that any more than you and Turing can help that yours is connected to circuits and electricity. Back the fuck off."

He tries to storm away, but her hand catches his wrist and spins him back around, and fuck, she is strong. He crashes into her full-force, and then she's pulled him into the angriest kiss ever, biting teeth and demanding tongue.

Stiles jerks back, stunned. "What are you doing?"

"You think you're the only one with magic buzzing under your skin? It's fucking magic camp!"

"Yeah, but shouldn't you be, I don't know, building a computer or something?"

Bletchley snorts. "Like anybody's going into the Lab anytime soon. Come on, Rotkäppchen. Tell me you're not interested and I'm gone. Otherwise, start walking."

And, shit, who is Stiles kidding? He's interested in a _very big way_. He starts walking.

They walk fast, and they don't speak. It feels like no time at all before Stiles is reciting the familiar words that make the space shimmer to life in front of them and tumbling them both inside, grabbing at Bletchley's shoulders to haul her in for another kiss even as he puts out a hand to make the walls opaque again.

"Can we leave it open?" Bletchley asks. "I mean, we are in the middle of the woods. Why hide it?"

_"If you're going to fuck in the woods, why not fuck in the woods?"_

_"Mosquitoes, Danny-boy. Always mosquitoes."_

He feels like he's been punched in the lungs. He reels and staggers back. "I—I'm sorry," he gasps and crumples to the ground with his head in his hands.

Bletchley looks down at him with her hands on her hips. Her gaze isn't judgmental, but it's scrutinizing and _piercing_. "You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm thinking about him!" Stiles waves his hands. "He's lying there in that cot, and—"

"But that's not what you're thinking." She crosses to the bed and lowers herself onto it. She pats the space next to her, and Stiles drags himself over and up to sit beside her. "You're _thinking_ about him."

Stiles scoffs. He is definitely scoffing here. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Turing and I aren't like that."

Her skeptical eyebrow lift could give lessons to Derek's. "That's not what I see when I look at the two of you."

"It's perfectly natural concern!" Stiles insists. "I'm his sponsor. I made certain promises to keep him and the camp safe while we were here, and I messed that up."

" _He_ messed that up," Bletchley says flatly. "He's still trying to—" She shakes her head. "I'm talking about the way you've been acting toward each other all week. His eyes track you when you move across a room. You _always_ find him when your tending shift ends. It's like you need to make sure he knows that whatever's happening in here doesn't change the way you feel about him."

"I don't—" Stiles stops. Is that true? Is that how he acts toward Danny? Is it how Danny acts toward him? He's always found Danny attractive; that smile and those abs played a starring role in Stiles coming to accept his bisexuality. But he's never thought about Danny as a potential partner, sexual or romantic. Because Danny, in spite of the snark that inevitably comes with being Jackson's best friend and a reluctant participant in Beacon Hills' supernatural shenanigans, is a good person. Not someone Stiles is looking to drag down with him.

But.

 _But_.

There is—there _has always been_ something between them. Underneath Stiles incessantly bugging Danny about whether he's attractive to gay guys and Danny agreeing to trace a text in return for a glimpse of shirtless Derek. Behind Ethan and Malia and everyone who's come after. They've always had an ember of connection.

Maybe that ember's ready to burn.

"Whoa," Stiles says, quietly awed.

Bletchley snorts. "All caught up now?"

"Yeah," he says. His smile starts small, but it grows quickly until he feels like it must be taking over his entire face. "Yeah, I am."

"Good," Bletchley says. She climbs onto the bed and stretches out on her back. "You're a free agent til he wakes up, and this clit won't lick itself."

If there's a flaw in her logic, Stiles can't find it.

*

Stiles has been back at Danny's bedside for fifteen minutes when he stirs. Stiles slides forward in his chair. And then off it.

"Stiles?"

"Right here, buddy!" he calls as he scrambles to right himself.

"You fell off your chair," Danny says. His voice is scratchy and his tone muzzy.

"No, no," Stiles insists. "All part of my master plan."

"Yeah, okay," Danny says, which gives Stiles a fair idea of how out of it he still is.

"How are you feeling?"

Danny starts to shrug one bare shoulder and then frowns. "I'm covered with bandages."

"Yeah, you got a little burned and dinged up. Nothing too bad. Dr. Stranger worked her magic on you—uh, literally and metaphorically—and Bletchley and I pitched in, too." Stiles is still on the floor. He should see about that chair at some point.

Danny's mouth twists. "That would explain the dream I was having about you."

"No, ah—" Stiles coughs, and his face is so hot he feels like he could light a candle off it. Danny's had a dream about him? And not just—if he— _crap_. If Danny thinks Stiles' magic was involved, then it was a _dream_. Of the naked variety. "Nope!" Stiles blurts and immediately wants to bang his head against something. "Getting you on the bed and bringing bandages. Stuff like that. She wouldn't let us use magic, in case ours reacted badly to hers."

Danny stares at Stiles. If he were more awake, Stiles knows he would be mortified by what he's revealed, but he's still coming back to himself. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"I was in the Lab, and—oh, no. Oh, _no_ —" _Now_ Danny is fully awake, staring toward Stiles in horror but not seeing him. His body clenches, and his hands lock into fists.

"Danny." Stiles gives up on getting back into his chair and instead rises up on his knees. He grabs Danny's hand, prying his fingers open. "Danny, it's okay. Everyone's okay. No one else got hurt, and the doc patched you up great. Everything will be fine."

Danny's eyes manage to convey complete incredulity despite being barely able to focus. They're also very beautiful, and Stiles has no idea how he's missed this for so long, the way he feels about Danny. "I blew up a computer. My control is _worse_ than when I got here. How will anything be _fine_?"

Stiles sighs and looks around. He'd tried to convince Bletchley to stick around until Danny woke up so she could explain what'd happened in the Lab in actual computer words. Stiles suspects Danny would be more open to what she has to say. But she insisted that Stiles and Danny needed to be alone when Danny woke up. So it falls to Stiles, who has halfway decent computer knowledge but no understanding of tech magic, to explain what the hell happened and how to avoid it in the future. "Bletchley says—"

"Oh, _Bletchley_ says," Danny grouses. Stiles recognizes that mulish expression and tone. Scott gets the same one when he doesn't want to admit that the _born werewolf_ in their ranks knows a hell of a lot more about werewolfery than the guy who was turned three years ago—alpha or no.

" _Yeah_ , Bletchley says," Stiles snaps. He doesn't take that shit from Scott, either. "She says you have data power, whatever that means, and you'll never control it by channeling it into hardware."

Danny's face shutters. He looks down, eyes almost closed, and the fight slips out of him. "Hacking," he says quietly. "She's talking about hacking." He raises his eyes to Stiles' again, and they are _panicked_ , round and frantic like Stiles has never seen them. "I'm 19. No sealed juvenile record if I get caught this time. How can I do that again? How can I do it to my _family_? I promised my mom—"

"Hey. _Hey_ , come on." Stiles rubs what he hopes are soothing circles on Danny's arm. "There are ways. We'll talk to my dad; he might be able to put you to work hacking for the department. Suspects' computers, stuff like that."

"Yeah, maybe." Danny's voice is hesitant, but Stiles sees a flicker of hope in his eyes that wasn't there twenty seconds ago.

"Or," Stiles says, his smile sharper, "you could pull a Hardison, pull down bad guys on your own."

"That's still illegal," Danny says, but now he's smiling, just a little.

Stiles takes a deep breath and leans closer. "I could be your Parker."

"What? Please," Danny scoffs. "Using the power of sex to make change? You're obviously Sophie." Stiles feels amused indignation piling up in him, but before he has a chance to voice his complaint, Danny adds slyly, " _Malia_ is Parker."

"Well, sure," Stiles shoots back, "if you want to date _Malia_."

Danny's eyes widen. "Did this conversation jump topics while I wasn't looking?"

Stiles shrugs. "Maybe a little." Now it's his turn to look down, plucking at the hem of Danny's shirt. Danny curls his fingers over Stiles' to still them, and Stiles hesitantly turns his hand over. Danny laces their fingers together, and Stiles finally finds the strength to meet his eyes again. For the first time ever, he allows himself to look into someone else's eyes with his magical sight for personal reasons. The ability's come in handy plenty of times for gauging the intentions of people passing through pack territory, but he's never allowed himself to use it _for himself_ , to gauge someone's intentions toward _him_. He has no idea what it shows to Danny in the process, if it shows him Stiles' intentions. He hopes it does.

It shows Stiles a humblingly large reserve of affection, attraction, amusement, respect, exasperation, and concern, bounded by a flame-ringed moat of frustrated lust. "Holy shit," he mutters, so startled by the revelation that he pitches forward face-first into Danny's face.

Danny looses a sharp, bemused exhale before he angles his head, and his lips meet Stiles'.

It's a heady rush. Danny's lips are warm and firm, and the smell of Armani cuts through the smell of disinfectant and antiseptic in the infirmary. The only sounds in the room are the shift of fabric on fabric as Danny repositions himself on the bed and the soft smacking noises of lips pulling apart and meeting again. Stiles is reeling; he's in his body, and he's light years away, like the entire universe isn't big enough to contain the surprise and delight and _hope_ he's feeling.

Danny tugs on their joined hands, and Stiles breaks the kiss long enough to scramble onto the bed so they can lie face to face. Danny's dimples make an appearance, and Stiles sighs happily as Danny's free hand comes to rest on his neck. Stiles rests his hand against Danny's ribs, and the warm, smooth skin sets him on fire. He dives back into the kiss, less coordinated in his hunger, and Danny makes that surprised sound again and responds with equal force, his tongue meeting Stiles' in a hot, wet slide that has Stiles' toes curling in his shoes and his blood thundering in his ears.

" _Ahem_."

They pull apart slowly at the amused noise behind them. Stiles isn't embarrassed at being caught—actually, he's proud, because it's Danny he's being caught with—but he resents the intrusion.

"I see my patient is doing better," Dr. Stranger says, a faint twitching at the corners of her lips.

Danny smiles at her, and Stiles sees the instant that smile melts her. "Much better, thank you."

"Wonderful," she says. "That's what I like to hear. Now get out of my infirmary."

"You're kicking us out?" Stiles asks indignantly.

"I try to keep the beds free for people who need them, Rotkäppchen," Dr. Stranger says. "Ones who aren't likely to have sex in my sterile environment."

"We aren't—" Stiles begins hotly, but Danny claps a hand over his mouth and says, "Thanks for everything, Doc. Give us a minute; we'll get out of your hair."

Stiles huffs but starts climbing off the bed as soon as Danny removes his hand. Danny makes a disappointed noise when he notices that the dark blue T-shirt he'd been wearing earlier is too singed to wear anymore. Stiles makes the same noise when Danny puts it on anyway. Danny smirks; Stiles blushes but refuses to look away.

" _Rest_ , Turing!" Dr. Stranger calls as they leave.

Danny waves and pinches Stiles' side when he grumbles, "We _were_ resting."

Danny reaches for Stiles' hand the instant they're out of the infirmary. Stiles tangles their fingers together and squeezes, looking cool as cool can be while his insides do flips. "Where to?" he asks. His voice stays blessedly steady.

"I should go back to the cabin and rest." He eyes Stiles. "You could come with me. We need to talk about this."

Stiles nods. He knows Danny's right. They went from friends and comrades in magic to dudes who make out with only a Leverage reference in between. But Stiles hates "talking about all this." Can't they go back to kissing and let everything else sort itself out? "Or," he says, "we could go to the Grotto." Danny opens his mouth for what's probably a protest, and Stiles holds up his other hand. "To talk. Just to talk." _At least at first_. "Guaranteed privacy."

Danny's expression hardens. "No. I'm sorry, but no. No Grotto."

The bottom falls out of Stiles' stomach. He stops walking and forces Danny to stop with him. "That's my space."

"I know," Danny says, and his face looks shadowed. Guilt-stricken. But he keeps his shoulders squared and his eyes on Stiles' as he says, "But it's your rule, and I'm not willing to—"

"What rule?"

Danny huffs, but Stiles is so lost he can't process what's going on in the conversation anymore. "One ride per passenger," Danny says tersely.

"Oh," Stiles says quietly. Yeah, that's his rule. It's served him well in the past, but right now he hates it. Passionately. "I could make an exception?"

"You could, but I don't want you to. And I don't want to _be_ your exception. There'd still be that . . . atmosphere." Danny touches Stiles' neck, and Stiles leans into the touch. "Who you are in the Grotto, that's important to you. I want to honor it. But I don't want us to have that restriction hanging over us. I mean—" He takes his hand off Stiles' neck and waves it vaguely. "If we ever come back here, and if we're still together when we do, we can talk exceptions and expectations around the Grotto. I'm not interested in starting from there. I don't want our first time together to be in a place where you only have sex with people you'll never have sex with again."

That . . . makes sense. In a weird, roundabout way. It's mature and well-considered, and it makes Stiles want to stomp his feet and cross his arms and shout " _No fair_!" Because what Danny's saying—he's not just talking about having sex with Stiles. He's talking about _being together._ He's talking about _next year_. And Stiles? Stiles sure as hell doesn't want to have to wait for any of that. He's glad Danny has such vast reserves of emotional maturity (magic denial notwithstanding), because he himself is fresh out. 

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says. He looks around helplessly. Danny ought to be resting—lying down, ideally—but they won't get much privacy in the cabin. "Hey, come here," he says, tugging Danny along by their joined hands.

Though most of the campgrounds are left wild, there's a large section of well-maintained grass where the kids who use the place the rest of the year do organized outdoor activities. There's a soccer pitch, a croquet lawn, and a big empty space for whatever sack races, three-legged races, and other bizarre competitions kids are being forced into these days. Two people kick a soccer ball around the pitch, and a handful of others seem to be trying to play an incomprehensible magic version of croquet, but otherwise the area is empty, the other campers either at the lake or holed up inside despite the bright sun and gentle breeze.

Stiles leads them to the side of the area and sits with his back against a tree, legs stretched out in front of him. He looks up at Danny, who's looking down at him with a bemused smile, and pats his lap. Danny huffs a laugh but settles on his back and carefully positions his head in Stiles' lap. It's almost certainly not what Dr. Stranger had in mind when she told Danny to rest, but the ground is relatively even, and the grass makes a halfway decent cushion. They can't be making things that much worse.

They're doing this backwards. They haven't been on a single date, and here they are sharing an incredibly intimate moment. He has to work from the assumption that Danny likes him for who he is and understands that he should look elsewhere if he wants a "normal" relationship.

And maybe . . . maybe it's not so backwards. Stiles' mind floods with memories of dozens of moments since Danny came back to Beacon Hills after the Benefactor, bearing his first fried computer and a wellspring of magic he refused to acknowledge. Loaded glances, lingering touches, pregnant pauses—a litany of moments that, with the benefit of hindsight to line them up, start to look like a roadmap to now.

Stiles runs a hand gently through Danny's hair, mindful of his injuries. Danny heaves a blissed-out sigh and leans, catlike, into the touch. He reaches out with one hand, and Stiles raises his own to meet it. Stiles holds on tight. Danny holds on tighter.

Stiles raises their hands to his lips, kisses Danny's knuckles, and then holds their hands against his shoulder. "You—" He licks his lips and stares ahead, gathering his thoughts. "I can't do physical monogamy," he says quietly, and it hurts to his _bones_ to say it. Because Danny deserves better. Danny deserves a guy who can commit to him one hundred percent, body, mind, heart, and spirit.

Stiles _can't_. His magic needs a lot of things he's not always thrilled to give it, including a variety of sexual partners. He'd tried to ignore that need once, and the fallout of that attempt is why he and Malia aren't together anymore. He can't try it with Danny, because Danny wouldn't _heal_ like Malia had.

Shit, _can_ he have sex with anyone more than once anymore? Will his magic reject Danny, lash out like it did at Malia? It fucking well better not, because he wants _so many times_ with Danny.

Danny smiles easily up at him. "I know," he says. "I get it. We were still stepping on glass shards in your living room carpet three months later. I am _not_ interested in a replay."

They smile wryly at each other, and Stiles moves their hands until they're over his heart. "But what's in here, dude, that's, uh, that's all for you."

Danny's smile widens, but Stiles only has a few seconds to appreciate the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes before he hooks his free hand around the back of Stiles' neck and hauls him downward. Stiles gives a yelp but goes, meeting Danny as he levers himself up. The kiss is sideways and uncoordinated, both of them at awkward angles, Danny's arm hovering weirdly over their heads. But it feels perfect. It feels like questions asked and answered without words needing to be spoken (though he knows they'll eventually have to speak them all). When Danny pulls away, there's an honest-to-god _twinkle_ in his brown eyes.

"You know," Stiles says, letting his fingers drift down Danny's chest, "that 'one ride' rule only applies in the Grotto. Not here."

Danny rolls his eyes. "Pull the other one, Rotkäppchen," he says tartly.

"No, I—"

" _No_ , Rotkäppchen," Danny says, more forcefully, and the repetition of his camp name reminds Stiles that they're still on camp grounds, out in the open where anyone could walk past. Not, apparently that there's going to be anything salacious to see. Danny sighs and says, "The Grotto isn't real, right? It's not a _place_. You and Starry and the other tenders made it with your magic. Which means that anyplace on camp grounds a Grotto tender has sex is the Grotto."

Stiles blinks at him, a little appalled. "That's terrible logic!"

Danny shrugs. "Yeah, but it's mine." He looks away for a second, and when his gaze returns to Stiles' face, it's sharp as can be. "We have a shot at something good. Can we give it a chance to start right?"

Stiles' insides warm at those words and the possibility in them, but he forces himself to scoff and look dismissive. "I mean, I guess. It's a good thing you're cute, you know. And brilliant. And funny. And one of the sweetest human beings I know."

"No, please, stop," Danny deadpans. "Don't tell me wonderful things about myself."

Stiles grins down at Danny, and Danny grins up at him. Stiles looks around. At the grassy field full of show-off magic users. At the rows of cedar-sided cabins marching toward the tree line. At the vast surrounding forest of towering evergreens, daring them to come experience a wilder magic than they've spent the week trying to master. At the beginning of camp, he'd had no intention of ever coming back. What would be the point? See Danny through the week and go back to his real life. 

Now he wonders whether, given the craziness in their lives, they need this escape. Maybe only once in a while, maybe every year. A place where no one knows who they are, what pack they're from, what crazy-ass bullshit the Nemeton's pulling in or how Eichen House is rotting the soul of humanity. A place to leave Stiles and Danny behind and truly be Turing and Rotkäppchen, two guys (boyfriends? Yeah. Definitely boyfriends) with no outside obligations, for a week.

Stiles solemnly lifts his hand toward Danny, pinkie extended. Danny looks at the hand and then at Stiles' face with his eyebrow lifted. "Next year," Stiles says.

Danny beams and reaches up, hooking his pinkie into Stiles'. He's languid and relaxed in Stiles' lap, practically glowing in the late afternoon light. "Yeah," he says, "next year."

If that's not a great promise for starting out with, Stiles doesn't know what is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or a kudo, if you're so moved. And come [tumbl](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) with me (no exploding computers. I promise).


End file.
